Wild Hearts

The
line

Fool Me Twice

by Mandy Hubbard

Wish You Were Italian

by Kristin Rae

Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

Wild Hearts

by Jessica Burkhart

Red Girl, Blue Boy

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

(coming soon)

Everything but the Truth

by Mandy Hubbard

(coming soon)

An
IF ONLY
novel

Jessica Burkhart

 

I couldn't have finished this book without the support and cheerleading of Bri Ahearn. Bri, thank you for welcoming me into your home and your city!

 

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

Cowboy proverb: The bigger the buckle, the better the cowboy.

Mom shrieked as Dad slammed on the brakes. Behind us, tires squealed, and several people blew their horns. I twisted to look out the back window and counted four pickup trucks.

“My God, Michael, you don't have to speed everywhere!” Mom said, smacking her hand on the gray dashboard.

Rolling my eyes, I leaned around her to see what was in front of us. I loved my parents, but we had spent excessive amounts of time together over the past several days. Being trapped in the car 24/7 with parents wasn't anyone's idea of fun. Welcome to another one of the Carter-Brooks family's permanent vacations, otherwise known as a move. The current destination: Wyoming.

I pulled out my earbuds and paused the music I'd been listening to. “What is it?” I asked, looking through the windshield.
Eight bison lumbered across the pebbled road. I stared. Real live bison that weren't in a zoo. The massive brown animals didn't glance up once or hurry away from cars. One by one, they walked in front of our SUV and into waist-high grass in the field on the other side of the road.

Truck engines rumbled and two cars joined the lineup. Tourists eagerly piled out of the cars, their cameras in hand or hanging by a strap around their necks. Almost all the tourists wore some form of
WELCOME TO WYOMING
hoodie or sweatshirt. Their trunks were probably stuffed with knickknacks—mugs, key chains, shot glasses—for friends and family back home. Locals stayed in their trucks and I could almost feel the drivers' impatience. I imagined that they were bored with the bison after living here for however long.

I shifted in my seat, trying to decide what to do. I wanted to get a closer look at the bison, but I didn't want the locals—my new neighbors—to lump me in with the tourists. “Dad, can I get out?” I tapped the back of his seat.

“For a minute,” Dad said. “Stay close to the car, Brie.” He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Never know what those animals will do.”

Unlike Mom and me, Dad had a strong distaste mixed with annoyance for animals and anything wildlife related. He was much more of an office-chilled-to-sixty-five-degrees type of guy. Dad had three trademarks: tasseled leather loafers, sunglasses, and his phone. If he had to spend six months on a deserted island, I knew those would be the three items he'd choose to bring.

“I'm going to take a photo,” Mom said.

She rooted around for her camera, and Dad dug through the SUV's cup holders.

“You see my phone?” he asked Mom.

“Daaad,” I said. “You're not going to get reception here. We're in the middle of
nowhere.
”

Dad, ignoring me, found his BlackBerry, held it up in the air, and moved it around until his arm was outside.

“I pay enough for this damn service,” he grumbled.

Time to get out of the car.

As soon as Dad
did
get reception, he'd be on the phone with the provider, chewing them out for the minutes of service he'd lost. Mom and I had been around for a zillion of these conversations. We'd pointed out that despite how much Dad seemed to hate the service, he kept renewing the contract. Every. Year.

I left my Canon T3i, Mom's old camera from last year, in the backseat. I wasn't in the mood to take pictures—I just wanted
out
. I glanced through the window before opening the car door, letting in a rush of cold March air. There was even some snow on the roadside—the one-lane roadside. “Road” was maybe giving the
path
we'd been driving on for hours too much credit. This road was practically nonexistent and in desperate need of a pave.

I looked far beyond the bison and saw a scattering of tops of houses and buildings. Somewhere down there, at the base of Blackheart Mountain, was our new home.

Mom, beside me, held her camera. Her sandy-brown hair was twisted into a messy bird's nest.

The huge animals moved with surprising grace across the road. Their shaggy coats had prickly burrs and there were dreadlocks around their hooves. A few wagged their stubby tails at buzzing flies.

Now at least ten cars had halted behind us and people were crowding forward snapping pictures. I chuckled to think of the poor friends and family members who would no doubt be subjected to a slide show upon the travelers' return.

“Look at that little guy,” Mom said, pointing to a cute bison calf. “He's perfect for a wildlife magazine.” Mom frowned at me. “You should have brought your camera, honey.”

I shrugged. Mom's photos always made mine look like cheesy glamour shots. Eccentric and creative, Mom could take a photo of anything and make it frame worthy. She had been teaching me about photography for years. After growing up with Annie Leibovitz as our family friend, photography was something that I liked to dabble in. I wasn't ever going to be good enough to make it professionally like Mom, but I was okay with it being just a hobby.

I zipped up my jacket to ward off the late March chill that seemed to tumble down the mountain. A fresh breeze, smelling of flowers and, ugh, farm animals, blew gently in my face. Mom aimed her camera at a bison as it plodded across the road and headed for the grass. She took her time, zoomed in on its head, and waited for the right moment. Just as the bison turned to face the cars, Mom snapped its picture.
Click
.